


Wrong

by lilylashes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 01:52:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilylashes/pseuds/lilylashes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this prompt: <i>I want Lestrade fucking young druggie Sherlock raw. Dub con a must. </i></p><p>  <i>Lestrade is frustrated because of his failing marriage, he really needs a good fuck and young and naive Sherlock thinks he might get something out of it. </i></p><p>   <i>Please no super deep discussions about their ~feelings~ or them becoming a couple or any of that. It's just sex.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Sherlock story, and I'm terribly nervous to post it. I thought a short story prompt fill would be the easiest way to break the ice, but I will say that it is completely un-beta'ed and un-Brit-picked. I did my best. Just something I pounded out in 24 hours to get myself back in the habit of writing. Please be kind :)
> 
> xx  
> lilylashes

PART I

               ‘Wrong.’

               The voice came from behind him, soft, but sure. Lestrade closed his eyes and supressed the urge to groan in frustration. Allowing himself time to count to five before he turned was a good idea, as he already knew who would be standing before him when he did.

Never one to disappoint, it was, of course, that damn kid standing there. The one who had appeared, almost fanatically, at the last three crime scenes Lestrade and his team were investigating. The one who thought himself so clever. The one who, unfortunately, was.

‘You do realise,’ the detective inspector said with gritted teeth, ‘that if you continue to show up on these case uninvited, unneeded and unannounced, you are very quickly going to become a prime suspect for the psychopath committing these crimes?’

‘And then you and your team would be wrong again, dear inspector,’ the youth said casually. Before Lestrade could open his mouth again, the boy continued, ‘I was not unannounced, as I made my presence known to several of your team a full ten minutes ago. It’s no fault of mine that they are both too lazy to inform you of such, and too distracted by following false leads to let you know that I arrived. I am also very much needed on this case, unless you enjoy the sordid and tedious task of letting yet another young woman’s family know of their daughter’s grisly demise, and furthermore, by being too big an idiot to follow even the simplest clues yourself, I would say, detective, that you have invited me personally, by your own sheer lack of intelligence.’ The boy finished his speech with the slightest of smirks, ‘Oh, and I’ll have you know that I am in no way a psychopath. A highly functioning sociopath, certainly, but don’t ever confuse me for something so mundane as a mere psychopath.’

Resigned to the fact that once the boy got started, there was no stopping him (multiple attempts of bribes, threats, incarceration and physical manhandling had not deterred him in the past), Lestrade gritted his teeth, and turned his attention back to the body of the poor dead girl before him. A few moments of silence passed before he sighed and looked up at the boy who hadn’t moved or spoken since his brief monologue.

               ‘Very well,’ he said, annoyed, ‘ _What_ am I wrong about this time?’

               The boy smiled slightly, ‘You were about to deduce that the killer must be someone that the victim knew personally, possibly a lover, or a mate from uni. You were thinking it would most likely be the former, due to the height of the heels she is wearing, and the length, or should I say, lack of length in that scrap of fabric she called a skirt. You were also noting that, despite being partially washed away, presumably in the struggle and last night’s thunderstorm, her makeup was applied quite heavily. And lastly, her hair, though now matted and soaked, has undeniable traces of product, which means she must have spent quite a bit of time getting it to behave the way she wanted it to, most likely in curls, based on the heavy knots towards the scalp. Naturally, the average mind assumes attractive young girl, provocative dress, fancy hair, garish red lipstick – date. Must have been some slag on her way to the pub with some lucky bastard who had more than intimate conversation on his mind.’

               Despite the utterly infuriatingly smugness of the boy’s tone, Lestrade could not deny a single one of his claims. He was one hundred per cent correct in his every speculation, and, in fact, the detective hadn’t even gotten to observing the victim’s makeup or hairstyle – he had made his hypothesis solely on the girl’s age and attire.

               ‘Well, if we both had the same observations, and have come to the same conclusion, what exactly about my assumptions is incorrect?’ Lestrade asked in spite of himself. The boy rolled his eyes, obviously frustrated.

               ‘I think saying ‘everything’ would suffice,’ he said dryly, ‘And in no way have we come to the same conclusion. I specifically said the _average_ mind would assume this woman was on her way to a date, not what a _superior_ mind would assume. Clearly she wasn’t on her way to a date – and certainly not one with a man capable of rape and murder. Well, I suppose I could just say ‘man’ and leave it at that,’ he sighed again at Lestrade’s look of confusion, and continued, his voice picking up speed and volume, ‘Look at her man, really look. First, her makeup. Obviously she was not the type to wear makeup at all, much less to do herself up like some sort of trollop. You can tell by the smudging around her temples – clearly she had to apply and reapply the absurd amount of mascara and eyeliner several times before getting it right. Secondly, in her handbag – red lipstick, brand new, still with the price sticker on. Smudges at the base of the cap, as though she was not accustomed to replacing it, and nicked it several times while trying to seal it up. Thirdly, and do try to keep up, in the side pocket of the handbag was a course schedule for LSE. _LSE_ , detective, and let’s be reasonable. If this young woman was able to get herself accepted into one of the top universities for economics and political science in the world, do you really think she would be out on the prowl on a Tuesday night, of all things? Of course not, she would be home, studying, especially since she has a big examination coming up on Thursday. _How do you know about said big examination?_ you ask, well I’ll tell you. The course schedule, of course, detective. From nine o’clock until half past eleven on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays, she has an advanced political science course with Professor Levi Cohen, PhD. _Levi Cohen_ , clearly a good, strong Jewish name. Take into account that he has received his doctorate and is teaching an advanced course at a top university, would imply that Professor Cohen is not a young man, ready to light the world on fire with his brilliance, but an older gent, set in his ways. Now, assuming that Professor Cohen is, in fact, an older, stubborn, possibly stodgy gentleman, it is safe to say that he has most likely kept his faith throughout the years, most likely Orthodox Judaism, which means he will honour the keeping of the holy day, the Shabbat, as much as life in the modern world will allow. Now, teaching a class on a Friday, that’s something that can’t be helped, of course, he must plan his schedule according to university needs, but it is unlikely he would spend the evening on his day of rest grading exam papers. Granted, grading papers isn’t nearly as strenuous as working a plow or shearing a sheep, but dear Professor Cohen would still rather spend his Friday evenings with his family, praying and eating dinner, therefore, he schedules exams Thursday morning, so he can grade them Thursday evening and return them to his students Friday morning so he could observe as much of his day of rest as possible.’

               Lestrade found his mouth hanging open momentarily, but closed it with a snap. Once he had regained his composure, he cleared his throat and asked, ‘How did you know about the contents of her handbag? Those items are evidence in our investigation and are being catalogued and-’

               The boy waved his hand dismissively. ‘If you want evidence to stay confidential, then I highly suggest you place it in the care of individuals who are far more attentive than your current team. Now where was I?’ before Lestrade could retort angrily, the youth barrelled on, ‘Ah, yes, her examination. Well, a student, especially a female student, at such a prestigious university, would certainly have to fight to keep her place, therefore, it is unlikely she would be going out on a weeknight before an exam that makes up over fifty per cent of her final mark. Obviously this means that she must have had a really good reason to be going out at all, much less going out looking like a street walker, which we have already established is not typical for her at all. I’d wager that if you were to examine her closet at home, it would be full of jumpers and polo neck blouses, most likely in earth tones. I’d also bet that you would find several photos of her and a young man in plain but lovely picture frames. No, no, not a boyfriend, inspector, but of her brother, and a dear one at that. On her key ring was a tag that said “#1 Sister’ in an insipid pink script with purple butterflies inscribed on it, the kind of gift a child would give his beloved sister, but you can tell by the cracks and scratches and faded ink that it’s quite old, I’d say about twelve or thirteen years. Why keep such a trinket, then? Obviously due to its sentimental value. She loved her brother quite dearly, despite his heavy drug addiction, which is painfully apparent from the flyer in the other pocket of her purse for Narcotics Anonymous Family Night. ‘Family Night’ they call it, like it’s going to be a night of telly and bingo, pathetic. Regardless, she had planned on attending, with or without her brother, but most likely without as she wrote, well, carved, really, the words ‘BRING JARED’ across the top, underlined three times, and with four exclamation points, like she was steeling herself for what a battle it would be to get him to agree to going, as he _doesn’t have a bloody problem_ and _doesn’t need her blasted help_.’ _How do we know Jared was her brother?_ Well, a nice, studious girl like her wouldn’t be the type to call her father by her first name, and seeing as her mother’s been dead five years now, ‘Jared’ is clearly not a step-father. Could be a cousin, but unlikely, especially since she kept a silly key tag for over a decade, most likely to remind her of happier times with her brother.’

               The boy went on to explain how the victim had never made it to the NA meeting because the night she went to confront her brother, and try to convince him to go with her, she had stumbled into a much more serious confrontation. Her brother, Jared, had gotten himself in quite a bit of trouble due to his drug addiction, and the only way his loving, devoted sister was able to convince his dealer, or more likely, his cronies, to allow her brother to keep his kneecaps and/or life was to offer another form of payment. The detective felt his blood run cold, not only at the young man’s words, but at the cold and somewhat casual way he said them. In the same offhand voice, the boy described the meeting behind the poor dead student and the dealer, who had never planned to accept something as inconsequential as sex for payment. He’d wanted to teach Jared a lesson, so he had thoroughly ravished his sister, who he’d made wear a humiliating get-up for her date with the devil, and then he had slowly, painfully, strangled the life out of her, and left her in the gutter like a piece of rubbish. The boy described the gruesome events with the same certainty he’d shown while deducing the victim’s education and family history, the same aloofness with not the slightest bit of consideration or empathy for the dead girl at their feet. He then provided a name and address for the drug dealer, and stood stock still as Lestrade called the information out to his team and there was a flurry of movement and flashing lights around him. Lestrade turned to give out another order, and when he turned back around, the boy was gone.

 

PART II

               The frustrating part about it was that it turned out that the boy was, again, correct. They’d arrived at the dealer’s home and within the hour had him in cuffs. The fool hadn’t even bothered to clean the blood and semen stains from his bed sheets, most likely keeping them there as some sort of trophy until he claimed his next victim desperate to save their loved ones. A more thorough search of the drug dealer’s flat had revealed that the young woman (whose name was Rowan Miller) turned out to be one of many victims to suffer similar fates. The evidence was insurmountable, and Lestrade knew he would not see the light of day for a very, very long time.

               After hours of paperwork, the tedious and yet unavoidable aftermath of solving a case, Lestrade finally left the Yard at nigh midnight. The thought of returning straight home flitted through him mind, but he just as quickly dismissed it. There was more than enough time for _that_ tedious and unavoidable task once he’d unwound from his very (very) long day. He trudged up the street to a pub he frequented, though usually in the company of other colleagues from the Yard, and certainly not so late at night. When he opened the door, he found it nearly deserted, save for a very few unsavoury looking characters in the corner booth. He didn’t spare them another glance, but went to sit at the bar, and ordered himself a pint.

               Several drinks (and hours) later, the detective finally forced himself from his bar stool. He threw a wad of cash down on the bar and walked (stumbled) to the door. Is this what had become of him? A man so reluctant to return to his cold house (and equally cold, soon-to-be (ex)wife) that he spent his time and money sitting in pubs alone on the average weeknight?

               Lestrade carried on with this line of thinking that quickly bounced between self-loathing and self-pitying for another block or so, and would have kept it up the whole way home had he not heard a sound behind him. It was the slightest crunch of a muffled footstep, indiscernible to the untrained ear, but to well trained (albeit, intoxicated) detective, the sound may as well have been a gunshot. He whipped around, hand flying to his gun, but where he expected to see a mugger, he found, instead, the boy from the crime scene earlier. He stood there, in the same long coat as earlier, but now instead of smartly fastened, it hung open, somewhat provocatively, his eyes wide, his hair slightly dishevelled. He looked slightly feral, standing there crazed eyes, unmoving, though, bathed in the lamplight on the otherwise pitch black street, there was a dark beauty about him as well.

               Lestrade shook his head to dislodge this last unwelcomed thought, though this only succeeded in momentarily throwing off his equilibrium. Once he finally had a hold on himself again, he regarded the youth in what he hoped was a stern look, but he feared was more akin to bloodshot and wild.

               ‘Isn’t it a bit late for you to be out?’ he asked, hating the slur of his words. The boy stared back at him impassively.

               ‘Couldn’t I say the same about you, detective?’ he retorted. He rolled his eyes, ‘Though I suppose there’s no rush when all that awaits you is a cheating wife and a failing marriage. And don’t ask me how I knew it, please. For the love of God, be more intuitive than that. Any detective who solved, or rather ‘solved’, a big case like this one would have gone straight home to celebrate with his wife, and would be shagging her senseless right now instead of standing here on a shady street, reeking of alcohol with that insufferably stupid look on his face.’

               ‘And what makes you think she’s cheating?’ Lestrade asked, not even bothering to dispute or question the boy’s (painfully accurate) description of his marriage.

               ‘The state of your trousers when I mentioned shagging,’ the boy replied indifferently, ‘It was actually a guess, but then they noticeably got, ah, _tighter_ when I mentioned intercourse with your wife whom I gather you haven’t been intimate with in some time now, most likely because she’s been having an affair with the gardener. It’s always the gardener, isn’t it? Must be their penchant for planting seeds.’

               It was this last comment that threw Lestrade into a fit of rage. It was, of course, the gardener. He should have known. His anger, however, wasn’t directed at the help his wife was doing, but at the smug young man before him who thought he could so carelessly dissect Lestrade’s life as though he were a sampling of woodlice under observation in a laboratory. It was then that he noticed the sheen of sweat across the boy’s face. His skin was deathly pale, sallow even, and it only took another moment observing his dilated pupils for the detective to realise.

               The boy was high. High as a fucking kite, if the Lestrade was to make an educated guess. When he twitched slightly, it was as though he was simply unable to stand still, as though thousands of hyperactive bugs were burrowing under his skin, making it seem like his whole body was vibrating.

               Without thinking, Lestrade suddenly lunged forward and grabbed the boy, yanking his coat from his shoulders. As he ripped it from him, he grabbed the boy’s arm and saw the tell-tale red dots there.

               ‘Heroin?’ he asked in disgust. The boy rolled his eyes again.

               ‘Of course not,’ he replied icily, though he made no attempt to free himself from the detective’s grasp, ‘Cocaine, obviously. It helps with the insufferable boredom of day to day life. Quite expensive, though, so I suppose I should thank you for helping me obtain this supply.’ He patted a small leather case that protruded slightly from an inside pocket of his jacket that still hung haphazardly off the arm he hadn’t shot up in.

               ‘I didn’t pay-’ Lestrade began, but fury once again engulfed him when he understood what the boy was actually saying, what he was admitting to. He grabbed the case and examined it closely. ‘This was at the drug dealer’s flat!’ he said angrily, ‘This is evidence! You can’t just waltz into a crime scene and steal evidence.’

               ‘And I told you earlier, detective, that if your evidence is so prudent and so precious, that it should be more carefully guarded. Clearly your team didn’t find this particular case of cocaine very interesting or important, as they left it sitting on the dealer’s bureau. They also didn’t even check to see that the windows were locked when they left the scene. Also, I should think that with all the other evidence you must have found in that flat, you could do without this paltry supply. And furthermore, let’s not forget who gave you Patrick’s address in the first place.’ His eyes widened even further as he realised his mistake.

               ‘ ‘Patrick’?’ Lestrade quoted coldly, ‘So I take it that it was more than your brilliant mind and deductions that lead us to his flat. Let me guess; you were a customer of his?’ when the boy didn’t answer, the detective continued in an icy voice, ‘And how did you know about the blackmail and bribery? Do you have some poor dead sister in the bottom of a skip somewhere thanks to your own disgusting habit? Is that how you knew what the girl’s makeup and skirt meant?’

               ‘Of course not,’ the boy replied flatly, ‘I don’t have anyone who loves me enough to take the fall for me. I handle those matters on my own, thank you very much.’ The implication of these words were not lost on the detective. The boy continued, ‘And I could have made those conclusions about the dead girl whether I’d known her killer or not. Superior mind and all that. I see what the rest of you idiots are too dim to observe. Bloody fools, you lot, down at the Yard. It’s amazing that such a large group of ‘professionals’ are so monumentally stu-’

               Before the boy could finish his insults, Lestrade whipped him around and pulled him down the alley. He’d had enough. The boy’s arrogance (and cleverness) was nothing short of infuriating. Fuelled by the alcohol he drank, the frustration he felt from being shown up yet again at work by a petulant teenage drug addict, the ever-increasing isolation he felt in his own home, the anger that the boy not only invaded a crime scene, but stole evidence for his own illicit use, and the burning, all-consuming desire to put him in his place once and for all, he grabbed the boy by the front of his shirt and backed him against the side of one of the buildings.

               ‘So you handled matters yourself?’ Lestrade sneered, ‘And how? On your knees? Begging to be forgiven your debt, for your life to be spared?’

               The boy attempted to straighten up, but he was immobilised, stuck between the brick wall and the detective’s strong grip. ‘I never begged,’ he informed the other man indifferently, ‘Patrick and I worked out an agreement years ago. It was mutually beneficial and satisfying. And yes, detective, on my knees, if you must know.’

               Lestrade’s breath hitched. Never before had he felt any sort of attraction to another man, but the idea of this boy – this haughty, aggravating, insulting, clever, beautiful boy – on his knees, in submission, and possibly, finally, blessedly _quiet_ , made him quite aroused indeed. He was sure that this did not go unnoticed by the boy, even in his altered state of mind. Before he could stop himself, one of his hands drifted to his belt buckle, the other staying firmly holding the boy against the wall.

               ‘Show me,’ he said quitely, and to his utter astonishment, after a momentary hesitation, the boy lowered his gaze to the ground, swallowed hard once, and gently pried the detective’s from his shirt before lowering himself to his knees. With slightly shaking, but obviously practiced hands, the boy batted Lestrade’s own hand from his belt, and deftly undid the buckle. Lestrade groaned in anticipation. This was insane. He was an officer of the law; if anyone should know better than to be accepting ( _demanding_ ) sexual favours from someone who was not only high, but also most likely underage, it would most certainly be himself. However, all thoughts of morality and legality vanished from his mind when the boy worked his zipper down and freed him from his trousers. His touch burned like fire and ice, and the detective’s cock hardened almost painfully. The boy stroked him slowly for a few moments, and, as if preparing himself for something both unpleasant and unavoidable, closed his eyes and took a deep breath before engulfing the detective’s whole length in his hot mouth.

               Lestrade saw stars. Literally. He’d never felt something so amazing in his entire life. Sex with his wife (when there had been such a thing as having sex with his wife) had been enjoyable, yes, but this, this clandestine, dirty, and altogether _wrong_ coupling was something in a league of its own. The boy kept one hand firmly on the base of his cock, alternating between stroking and playing with his balls, all the while sucking and licking furiously. His mouth felt like heaven.

               The detective moved his hands to the boy’s curls, and found himself gripping them, like a man possessed. He began thrusting into the boy’s mouth, first slowly, gently, then faster, harder, deeper. Every frustration comes out, and he felt himself hitting the back of the boy’s throat over and over, the boy beginning to choke and gag, but valiantly soldiering on in his service of the older man’s cock.

Finally, when Lestrade was right on the brink of coming, he pulled out abruptly. Neither he nor the boy could so much as comprehend what was to happen next as he wrenched the boy to his feet, flung him over the side of the skip, and roughly yanked down his trousers. The boy gasped, but did not protest or fight when the detective roughly spat in his hand and shoved two fingers into him without warning. After the slightest, most frenzied bit of preparation, Lestrade forced his way into the boy’s ass, relishing in the tight warmth of it. The boy let out a low moan, but Lestrade couldn’t tell if it was from pleasure or pain. He found that he really didn’t care.

He allowed the boy a moment to adjust, then pulled out slightly before slamming home again. Over and over he snapped his hips forward, driving himself deeper and deeper into the boy beneath him. They were both panting now, and this time, the detective could definitely tell the boy was getting something out of it as well. He reached one hand around, and gripped the boy’s cock, stroking him the rest of the way to hardness. He matched his strokes to his thrusts, and within minutes both he and the boy were quickly approaching orgasm.

His climax ripped through his body like a white-hot knife. He let out a strangled noise that is a curious cross between a roar and moan, and pulled out, his come leaking from the boy’s abused hole. The boy, who was also on the brink, but not quite at completion stayed still, quivering, waiting for instruction. Lestrade took a moment to redo his trousers before he bodily flipped the boy over, and stepped away as he stared up at him through half-closed eyes.

‘Well, finish yourself off, then,’ the detective ordered, breathing hard. The boy’s hand drifted to his own cock almost shyly, but then his strokes grew surer and surer. He threw his head back, eyes squeezed shut until they flew open and met Lestrade’s hungry gaze.

‘Come!’ he demanded, and no sooner did the words leave his mouth when the boy obeyed, hot white spurts flying from him that then lay, cooling, on the ground. The boy stared down at them, refusing to look at the detective as he pulled up his trousers, and gingerly bent over to pick up his coat from where it lay on the ground. He examined it curiously, and swung it back around his shoulders, once he was content that it was free from muck and semen.

Lestrade watched the boy in silence, emotions ranging from satisfaction to guilt threatening to overwhelm him. He felt like perhaps he should apologise, but truth be told, he wasn’t really sorry. Finally he cleared his throat and took a few steps backwards.

‘Well,’ he said awkwardly, ‘I’ll be off, then.’ The boy didn’t answer. Lestrade turned and made his way back down the alley before he turned again to look at the boy. He hadn’t moved from next to the skip, just tightened the belt of his coat and brushed some rubbish from the knees of his trousers.

‘What’s your name?’ Lestrade asked in spite of himself. The boy raised his eyes to meet the detective’s gaze, and his blue eyes pierced Lestrade like daggers.

‘Sherlock,’ the boy replied, and coughed a bit, ‘Sherlock Holmes.’

Lestrade nodded once and turned again, this time refusing to look back. Sherlock watched him go, feeling nothing and everything all at once.

 

PART III

_Fifteen years later_

               The cameras flashed, nearly blinding Lestrade as he did his best to ignore them. It was dreadful work, the Q&A that came with every well publicised murder. The ridiculous thing was, that this case wasn’t even one of murder, it was one of suicide, which the public seemed unable to come to terms with. They were in a state of panic, though, as Lestrade pointed out, if they wanted to be safe from the epidemic of serial suicides, the solution was quite simple: don’t commit suicide. He assured the press that the public was safe, and that he had his best team on the job of getting to the bottom of the linked suicides. No sooner had these words left his mouth when literally every single mobile phone buzzed, chirped, dinged or beeped. He glanced down at his own phone, and the words he read there both froze and elated him.

               _Wrong!_

_Wrong!_

_Wrong!_

_You know where to find me. -SH_

               And so it was about to all begin again. Despite the gravity of the situation, the grisliness of the case, Lestrade smiled.


End file.
